Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

She leaned in, just enough to speak softly at his ear—ensuring no one else would hear—“If you would like, I can twist an ankle.”

He pulled back, surprise and something like humor in his eyes. “I would not like that, as a matter of fact.”

“But it would save you from having to dance.”

His brows rose. “Are you sure it wouldn’t save you from having to dance?”

“Of course not. I dance perfectly well,” she said. “I was simply helping you, as you do not.”

“And you know this because . . .”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Because of course you don’t.”

He nodded, his hands tightening against her, strong and firm and safe and wonderfully warm, making her wish that they were not here, in front of all the world. Her breath caught, desire pooling deep and distracting—distracting enough that she didn’t notice they were moving until he said, at her ear, “I think I shall do just fine.”

And he did do just fine. He did more than fine. He moved with practiced grace, as though he’d been waltzing every evening of his life, deftly avoiding the other couples as he wound her through the room. Hattie had danced hundreds of dances in her time out—in those early years her dowry had made her vaguely appealing to the men of the ton—but she’d never once felt like this, the way she did in mere seconds in his arms. As though she, too, had practiced grace.

Her gaze flew to find his, liquid amber, focused on her. “You know how to dance.”

He grunted his reply, and Hattie took comfort in the noise—finally, something unsurprising from him. She spread her fingers over his coat sleeve, the heat of him passing through the fabric, and sighed, closing her eyes and letting herself fall into the simple sway of the dance.

Letting herself forget for a moment. Forget Augie and the business and why she was so worried—forget the deal they’d made and her dreams for her future, and the Year of Hattie. The world distilled itself in that place, in the arms of that man, his heat and his movement and his strength wrapping around her on a thread of lemon sugar.

And, for just a moment, Hattie forgot herself, too.

But a moment doesn’t last. Soon, she opened her eyes to find his gaze rapt on her, and she stiffened beneath his attention, keenly aware of the things he could see—the ruddy pink of her skin—nothing like a ripe peach, nothing even close to berries and cream—her too-wide nose, her too-round cheeks, her full chin—the all-too-visible reasons why she was on the shelf.

Silence was not a friend to the unattractive woman; it left far too much time for aesthetic analysis. When he took a deep breath, she couldn’t resist filling the silence. “You could have told me you knew how to dance,” she said, turning away from him for a moment before realizing that he was now looking at her ear, and weren’t ears the strangest parts of the human body? She’d rather he looked at her eyes. Her eyes were fairly uniform in size and of an uncommon color, and possibly her best feature. Not that she should care that he noticed her best feature.

Oh, who was she attempting to fool with that line of thinking? She absolutely wanted him to notice her best feature. She wanted him to acknowledge it as best. Not just in relation to all her other features, but in relation to everyone else’s features, as well. Which wasn’t possible, she knew, but she ought to acknowledge such a desire, shouldn’t she? Wasn’t that what the Year of Hattie was about? Acknowledging desire? Chasing it?

So there it was, she wanted him to think her eyes were pretty.

Had anyone ever used the word pretty to describe her?

“Why would I do that?”

She blinked at the reply, instantly thinking he was referring to her eyes and feeling oddly defensive about it before she remembered her earlier question about dancing. “Because—you must have been insulted by my insinuation that you didn’t know how to dance.”

He shook his head, the movement barely there. “I wasn’t.”

She didn’t believe him. “I thought you didn’t dance, which clearly you do; I thought you didn’t understand the peerage, and here you are with an invitation to a duke’s home, so that’s utterly false, too. I underestimated you.”

He was silent for a long time, the sway of the dance the only thing between them before he turned his amber gaze on her and said, “You said you didn’t care if I knew any of those things.”

Truth came instantly. “I didn’t.”

His throat worked as he considered his next words. “You didn’t put value on them.”

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

He nodded once. “Seemed you may have overestimated me, then.”

She exhaled in a little laugh, his meaning settling in. “It does, doesn’t it?” Another pause. Then, “How did you learn to dance so well?”

The tentative camaraderie that had come from their conversation disappeared, his gaze immediately shuttering. Regret flooded Hattie, along with no small amount of confusion—how had such a simple question caused such an immediate, unpleasant response?

Beneath her fingers, his muscles turned to iron, as though he were ready to do battle. She looked up at him, his eyes fixed at a point over her head, in the distance. She twisted, craning to see, expecting to find an enemy charging toward them. But there was nothing there. Nothing but silks and satins and laughter swirling like madness.

What had happened? What was wrong? She didn’t know this man well, but she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t tell her if she asked. Nor would he answer the other questions immediately on her tongue.

She looked back at his face, now ashen beneath the warm olive she’d come to expect. Concern came, hot and unpleasant. She clutched his arm with the hand there, clasped the hand in her own tighter. Lowering her voice, she said, “Mr. Whittington?” He swallowed at the name. Shook his head once, as though throwing off a foul taste. “Whit?” she said, even softer. “Are you ill?”

His breath was coming harsher now, the rise and fall of his chest impossible to ignore for his nearness. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and a muscle in his jaw ticked as though he was clenching his teeth, resisting whatever was consuming him.

She squeezed the hand in hers tightly. Tight enough to hurt. His amber eyes found hers. Answered the question in them.

She nodded, and they stopped dancing, but she did not release his hand, instead clinging to him tightly. Without an ounce of hesitation, she turned, and walked to the edge of the ballroom—and kept going, past a half dozen of the ton’s finest gossips, straight through the doors and into the darkness beyond.

Chapter Thirteen

He couldn’t let go of her hand.

He’d been in complete control. He’d played the part, made the noises, nodded at the gentlemen, smiled at the ladies, and spoken with the earl, issuing threats on the enemy’s turf—an action designed to strike fear. He’d set the Bastards’ revenge in motion.

Without Hattie.

Hattie, who had run from him the moment she’d seen him enter the ballroom, as though he might not notice. As though her running from him would make him think of anything other than chasing her. He didn’t chase her. Not in the classic sense. Instead, Whit kept to his original plan and laid the groundwork for revenge.